


Late

by Arielavader



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst, Anxious Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Established Relationship, Happy Ending, M/M, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-25 01:54:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30081693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arielavader/pseuds/Arielavader
Summary: He's late.It's 7:00. Dinner was at 7:00. And he's late.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 81





	Late

**Author's Note:**

> TW: This is basically one big panic attack. I'm sorry.

He's late.

It's 7:00. Dinner was at 7:00. And he's late.

Crowley fights against the rising panic. Follows the human leading him to a table - their table. "Mr. Fell running late, tonight?" 

Crowley can't, doesn't dare speak the words and only nods. "No worries," the human continues as if the world isn't ending again. "We will make sure to bring him up as soon as he arrives."

Crowley nods again. Glances at his watch. 

7:01. 

Aziraphale is never late for dinner. In fact, Crowley had arrived a bit early because the angel is never late. When they meet like this, when Aziraphale insists Crowley doesn't need to go out of his way, that they can meet at whatever location, Crowley's favorite thing is looking for blond curls and getting to watch, unobserved, for a few moments.

But tonight there had been no angel waiting for him. No shot of thrill as demon eyes found soft platinum in the crowd of humans. No tugging of his lips to a smile. No heartbeat skipped when soft hazel eyes met his own across the sea of humanity. No melted insides when his angel smiled. 

7:02. 

Crowley pulls out his phone and calls the bookshop. It's a bad idea, but maybe Aziraphale had forgotten their date.

_It's dinner,_ Crowley's mind taunts. _He never forgets dinner._ They had spoken only an hour ago for someone's sake. 

The phone rings. 

No answer. 

7:03.

Crowley fights every instinct that tells him to stand up. To move. To get to the bookshop. Sirens and flames and Aziraphale gone again, this time with no way back. 

A waiter approaches, undeterred by the demonic aura Crowley knows is rolling off of him in waves. 

"Would you like a glass of wine, while you wait, Mr. Crowley?" It was a question he has never been asked before. Because Aziraphale is never late.

He nods. The human leaves. Crowley looks at his watch.

7:05.

His mind spirals. Where was that blasted angel? Was something wrong. Had Heaven or Hell gotten to him? Had someone figured it out. Was Aziraphale alone, being tortured or burned out of existence by Hellfire? Would they come for Crowley next or had they figured out the only torture for the demon was life without his angel? 

A glass sits before him. He drinks. He doesn't look at his watch. He can't. 

It was supposed to just be dinner. But it was never just dinner. It was their way of celebrating those daily moments that had made the Earth worth saving. Of celebrating existence and each other. And now it is all gone. Aziraphale gone. No other explanation. Crowley would never see the lines around his eyes crinkled in amusement or the soft flutter of his pale eyelashes. Never again feel the soft press of those lips against his own. Never hear his name, spoken with such delight, from those same lips.

He has to move, to do something, to fight this. He has to trust that small flicker deep within his soul, telling him he can still find the angel. That he can fight anyone who gets in his way. That Aziraphale is his and his alone and anyone who tries to take him away or hurt him will pay. 

Crowley will make them pay.

He tries to stand but something catches him. Crowley looks down to find plump, well manicured fingers covering his own gangly ones. He stops.

"There you are," the voice is soft. 

Crowley follows the hand upwards, eyes slowly drifting past the wrist to a beige covered arm, a broad shoulder, and finally the face of an angel.

_His_ angel.

Relief slams into him and he stares, unable to meet the eyes he knows so well. Thank someone for being here surrounded by humans, eyes protected by dark glass. "Aziraphale?" It was soft, too soft. His mind reels again: a bar, the smell of alcohol, an image distorted, the slight desperation in a voice, two voices. 

"Come back to me, dearest." No desperation now, just quiet, soft. A place to land. No boiling pool of sulfur. Just the love of an angel. 

_His_ angel. 

Crowley breathes. 

Aziraphale smiles. 

Time stops. 

The anger rises, unbidden. He can't stop it. His voice is harsh, ragged. "Where the Heaven were you, you idiot?" The anger is for himself. Always for himself. Not enough. Not in time. Words unsaid. Lies spoken. No. The anger is always for Her. The lies he tells himself.

But Aziraphale knows this. Has always known this. Knows what is happening. Has seen it and doesn't rise to the bait. Not here. Not surrounded by humans who know their names, their usual orders, their wine preferences for someone's sake. When had they become this?

Aziraphale just holds on to his hand. Lets the anger die softly. Crowley has never been so glad for the softness. His soft angel. But still, he pulls his hand back, trying to escape. The angel doesn't loosen his grip. 

And there it is: the strength beneath that softness. Always there, rarely used. Grounding. 

_Focus for Hell's sake. Stop being a bloody blessed mess. It's alright now. Everything's okay._ He can't think. Or speak. What even are words?

Time starts again. 

Crowley breathes.

Aziraphale's grip loosens. Crowley grabs at him with his other hand. 

"I suppose my days of taking cabs are over?" There is humor there, Crowley knows, trying to take over the thrum of whatever was laid out before them by the thoughts rollercoastering through Crowley's head. 

"Live with me," he blurts out. 

"At your flat?" 

"No." The response is hard, but the reason behind it is not. Aziraphale deserves nice things. Warm things. Things that Crowley's flat could never be. 

"I know we spend a lot of time at the bookshop, my dear, but I don't think there is room for your plants."

Crowley laughs. And just like that, whatever had been there flees and he can look the angel in the eye. 

"Not enough light, anyhow." He drawls. 

Aziraphale picks up his own wine glass and takes an appreciative sip. When had the humans brought that?

"A cottage then," the angel says as if he can make it into being by just his words. Maybe he can. "By the sea. With a library and a garden." A pause. Then, "Do you want to talk about it?"

A head shake, imperceptible to most. But Aziraphale is not most. "By the sea?" Crowley asks instead. 

"We could have our own ducks, so I wouldn't miss the ones in the park." 

'Now you're just putting me on." 

Aziraphale beams at him, almost literally. "Let’s eat first, my darling demon. I'd rather continue this discussion when we are alone."

And the demon's lip quirks up in a fond smile, a shot of thrill competing with the melting of everything inside. His heartbeat skipping. He lets go of Aziraphale's hand. The world comes back into focus. 

"Alright then?" Aziraphale asks. The tone is worry mixed with relief. It isn't really a question, but a confirmation.

Crowley nods. For now. He doesn't speak. He doesn't have to. 

Aziraphale relates the tale of woes that caused his late arrival but while Crowley listens, he focuses on something else.

An angel and a demon, together. 

A once upon a time story finally ending with happy ever after: A cottage, by the sea, with a library and a garden and maybe some ducks in a pond. A warm couch, his head in a soft lap while a soft voice reads aloud and soft fingers comb through his hair. 

Soft and warm. A place to land.

Home.


End file.
